


The Absence of Stability

by afinecollector (orphan_account)



Series: Not Waving but Drowning [27]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, Case, Crime Scene, Epilepsy, Fit, Focal Seizure, Gen, Grand Mal Seizure, JME, Juvenile Myoclonic Epilepsy, Sally is a bitch, Seizure, T/C Seizure, absence seizure, epileptic, fitting, i love Greg, leave Montague Street!?, simple focal seizure, tonic clonic, tonic-clonic seizure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-08-08 10:46:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7754677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/afinecollector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sally is less than helpful when Sherlock has a tonic-clonic seizure at the scene of a murder. Lestrade tries his hardest but feels like he's drowning in his lack of real knowledge. And to add insult to injury, Mycroft delivers an ultimatum.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Absence of Stability

“What’s he even staring at?” Sally asked, tilting her head, and turning to Lestrade to her right with an expectant expression. “Because if he’s over there just daydreaming about that dead guy, then that’s a bit weird and the _freak_ should be removed and put in padded room somewhere out near Broadmoor.” 

Lestrade raised his eyebrows at her. “Would you give the guy a break? This is the fifth case he’s assisted us on in the last year. All four before this have been solved and he’s been exactly right.” He supposed it might have been an ideal opportunity for him to launch into his new-found knowledge of epilepsy and the various types of seizures that could present - but part of him was hoping she’d say something to Sherlock and he’d attack her with his velvety voice and overly wordy responses that were - he was certain - devised just to bewilder people. 

“And that’s probably the fifth time in about fifteen minutes that he’s just stood there, twirly his girly hair and staring at our dead body.” Sally responded and met Lestrade’s wide-eyed expression with a firm stare of her own. 

Lestrade eyed her for another few seconds before he walked away, abandoning her beside the car, to walk toward Sherlock. He came to a stop beside him and waited a moment before speaking, able to hear Sherlock muttering to himself. “Okay, just gimme anything you’ve got, kid, because this is dragging out a bit… Absolutely anything.” 

Sherlock blinked and looked to his left, frowning at Lestrade. “What?” 

“The body, Sherlock.” Lestrade pointed at the prone figure on the floor, blood pouring from his head and his legs bent out of shape. “Anything at all, kid…” he wound his right wrist, urging Sherlock to speak. 

Sherlock frowned down at the body and pushed his hair away from his face with both hands. “Um…” He pulled his lips in tight against his teeth. Then paused, silencing completely and blinking rhythmically. 

Lestrade watched him, confused, before finally realising that Sherlock was experiencing grouped-together absence seizures that were clearly causing him some confusion. He tried to recall everything he’d read, to piece it all together in his mind and remember the warnings and causes - and failed miserably beyond knowing that Sherlock was stuck in a flowing river of absences. 

When he watched Sherlock screw his face together, Lestrade touched his back gently with his hand. “You’re having seizures.” He said, quietly. Sherlock jerked his head toward him, moving so that Lestrade’s hand fell away from his body. “Little, daydream-things.” 

Sherlock gave a deep sigh then breathed in a heavy breath, flooding his lungs before he huffed it out. “Murdered.” He said, bluntly and shook his head. “Lots of them?” He asked, frowning at the officer. 

“A good few.” Lestrade nodded his head. “Is that bad?” 

Sherlock wet his lips. “Could be. Hmm… Yeah. Not good.” 

Lestrade was well aware that Sherlock’s behaviour was off. He was confused, unfocused - even more than usual - and seemed to be completely without a clue as to what was expected of him while he was standing here. “What do you need?” Lestrade asked. “Sherlock? What - do - you - need?” 

Sherlock inhaled deeply again and blinked with force, pushing his eyes tightly closed before dragging them open again, making his eyeballs feel squashed. “To lie down.” 

“What?” Lestrade scoffed, assuming Sherlock was taking the piss. “Look, kid, if you’re high...you can’t be here. I’m breaking every rule in the book letting you come along to these things, and if you’re showing up tweaking…” 

Sherlock shook his head slowly. “No.” He spat. “Bugger…” Sherlock rubbed his right hand across his abdomen, high up under his ribcage at the odd feeling of a rising sensation. Even in his clear confusion, he was able to recognise that sign. “On the floor.” 

“Yes.” Lestrade nodded, losing his patience. “There is a body on the floor.” 

Sherlock shook his head, “No. Me…” He swallowed, feeling a wave of nausea like he was being tossed around on the Waltzers. 

“You?” Lestrade frowned, then reached out both hands to grip Sherlock’s biceps as the man staggered on his feet. “Oh...oh, shit. Donovan!” He yelled, turning his head to find her in the growing collection of officers. Donovan walked speedily across the open carpark and waited for further instructions as she came to Lestrade’s side. “He’s going to fit.” 

“What?” Sally’s jaw almost dropped as her eyebrows drew up. 

“He’s going to have a fit, we need to lie him down and I need your bloody jacket. Help me lie him down, then put it under his head.” Lestrade barked at her, as the two eased Sherlock to the floor in an awkward bend of their legs, trying not to drop Sherlock as he fought against them in confusion. “Under his head!” he shouted at her, waiting for her to remove the blazer she was wearing. Jumping, Sally pulled off her jacket and balled it up under Sherlock’s head as Lestrade held Sherlock’s arms as he fought to get up. “Sherlock, you’re lying down. You’ll be fine now.” 

“You cannot be serious?” Sally glared across Sherlock’s body at her boss. “Here?” 

“It isn’t like he can stop it, is it?” Lestrade rolled his eyes at her. “...Jesus…” he cursed as Sherlock’s body suddenly stiffened, and he gave a prolonged, deep groan. “Here we go.” he muttered. 

Lestrade hadn’t been around Sherlock having a full, tonic-clonic seizure since he’d been taken in that night, over a year ago now, and he wasn’t sure he was prepared enough to go through it again. He’d got used to Sherlock’s odd twitches and occasional dips out of conversations, and he felt butterflies beginning in his stomach as he recalled the first - and last - time he’d witnessed this, and it made him feel nervous and sick. 

After a brief clonic phase, Sherlock’s body began to jerk in rhythmic spasms, his arms jerking in against his chest as if he were holding something against him and trying to tighten his grip against it. His head craned back and to the side, his jaw dragging down tensely as his eyes rolled back slightly and fixed blindly on a spot somewhere off in the far right side of his skull. Sally pushed her jacket in a bit further, protecting Sherlock’s slightly jerking head from pummeling into the concrete beneath them. 

“Are we supposed to call for an ambulance?” She asked, her tone free of sarcasm and replaced with uncertainty. 

Lestrade looked up from Sherlock’s body and straight into her eyes. “Um - no you're not supposed to, not ‘less it goes over a certain time. We've just got to wait.” 

Sally's eyes grew wider. “We're in the middle of a job! I told you, I said this freak was a liability.” 

“Give it a rest, yeah?” Lestrade snapped at her. “It's not like he planned it!” 

“He's probably coked out of his head!” Sally remarked with a shake of her head. 

Lestrade glared at her; he knew she had a point and yeah, she could be right, but he didn't want to believe her. He sighed and turned his eyes back to Sherlock. To Lestrade's surprise, the seizure ended as soon as it began. In barely two minutes, Sherlock's body had stilled and he lay on his side with Lestrade's hand touching his hip, his breathing slowly settling from watery huffs into steady, deep sounds.

“You doing okay, kid?” Lestrade asked in a fatherly voice. 

“How long until he's...upright?” Sally asked, oddly less vindictive. 

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders and slowly drew his eyes up to her. “I don't know.” He dragged down the corners of his mouth. “Maybe we should tap his phone, call some family or something?” 

“Coat pocket?” Sally asked, beginning to pat the pocket of his coat where it was tossed back behind him and close to her, and his trousers, with light fingers. “Under him or in your side.” She said, looking up as she drew a blank. 

“Yeah, he’s lying on the other pocket.” Lestrade screwed up his face. “Sherlock,” he said firmly. “Are you back with us, kid?” Sherlock made a quiet but definite hum and Lestrade smiled. “Good lad.” He whispered. “Can you move, or talk?”

Sherlock poked out his tongue and wet his lips lethargically. “Mm...h..ead.”

“Head?” Lestrade frowned. “Head, your head hurts?” Sherlock hummed again. Lestrade looked up at Sally again. “Maybe we do need to get that ambulance. ...I don't know what I'm supposed to do.”

“Your mother never tell you to research a pet before you get one?” Sally sniped as she took her mobile from her pocket. 

 

 

 

“I always knew hanging around...ordinary people would be the undoing of you.” Mycroft remarked as he followed Sherlock into his Montague Street flat. “Inspector Lestrade and his band of merry men and women are not your friends, Sherlock. And goodness knows, Mummy is appalled that you're throwing away your degree in favour of playing policeman.” 

Sherlock sighed through his nose. “I have a headache, Mycroft, so unless you want to say something useful, I'd prefer it if you just went home.” 

“I pay your rent.” Mycroft said firmly, eyeing his brother as he flopped onto the threadbare armchair that was almost all that occupied the dingy room. “Such as this place is a rental home.” 

“If you hadn't sent Victor away…”

“I didn't.” Mycroft cut across him sharply. “He chose to use his career in the military as a stepping stone within intelligence. It was merely a job suggestion, he was not forced.” 

Sherlock closed his eyes. “I don't care.” 

“And yet here we are; you having seizures that are unavoidable because you're not taking care of yourself.” Mycroft said flatly, disguising his concern awfully well. “People like Sally Donovan will never like you. Giving her something to pin down and make you look incompetent only increases her opinion’s strength.” 

Sherlock opened his eyes again and frowned at Mycroft, still standing, towering above him. “Headache.” He said firmly and pointed at his head. “So unless you have a point to make…” 

“I'm withdrawing the funding for your life here. I will help you, of course, wherever else you decide to lodge. But this drug-den is no longer suitable.” Mycroft turned up his nose.

“I'm clean.” Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft smirked. “Perhaps you are, but your flat isn't. Find new lodgings, brother mine, and a flatmate if you have to. But you're to leave Montague Street by this time next month.” He said as he turned to walk away. “And I will be watching, so take your goddamned medication.” 

Sherlock flicked his wrist at his already departed brother and sighed. New lodgings? But he liked his flat… How could he bear to move anywhere else?


End file.
